Megalomania
by madstoryteller999
Summary: "They think you're so innocent, don't they?" Tom murmured, his hand forcefully grasping Harry's hair and tilting his head to him, "Their little golden savior, the perfect Gryffindor—brash and brave and so vulnerable—you've emulated the public's ideal of their Boy-Who-Lived from the moment you walked into Hogwarts, haven't you? Tell me, do they know who you truly are, Harry Potter?"
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Please read and review!

* * *

_—Chapter One—_

* * *

"Where is your mum?"

Harry sat silently on the swing, refusing to answer.

"Where is your mum, _Potter_?"

The boys around Dudley began laughing hysterically, Piers Polkiss's high-pitched cackle ringing sharply in his ears.

_Where's your mum Potter?_

_Where is she?_

_Your mum, Potter, where is sh—_

"Is she dead?"

Harry froze, jaw tightening in acute restraint.

"Is she _dead_!" Dudley jeered once more, focused on impressing his friends. Harry closed his eyes and counted to ten. _One. Two. Three…_

"Is _mummy _dead, _Potter_?"

Harry didn't even remember pulling out his wand. The next second, he had crossed the yards between them, his holly wand at that pale thick neck.

Dudley immediately froze, Adam's apple bobbing under the blunt edge. His friends quieted, the jeering laughs dying out abruptly in the abandoned playground. The creaking of the still moving swing could he heard dimly in the background.

"Y-you can't do that. You can't do this stuff outside of school," Dudley muttered nervously, his pasty skin paling even further as he darted frightened looks at his cousin's face.

"I'm not allowed to," Harry agreed, a strange calm washing over him as he leaned closer to whisper in Dudley's ear. "But how do you know if that's going to stop me?"

A grim smile that didn't reach his eyes decorated his face as Dudley was unable to answer.

"Everyone has a breaking point," Harry announced to his audience, a wild sort of recklessness in his actions as he smirked at them, "And this…well, this just happens to be mine."

As Harry moved his wand, preparing to transfigure his only cousin into something awful—preferably small and without the capabilities of defending itself—the skies began to darken ominously, thunder clouds swooping in where previously there had only been sunlight.

"P-Potter!" Dudley yelled hoarsely as his friends fled, abandoning him, "What are you doing? Stop it! Stop doing this freaky stuff! GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME!"

"It's not me," Harry muttered, pulling his wand away from Dudley to examine his surroundings.

"Stop it, Potter!" Dudley whimpered, batting away at invisible hands, "It's so _cold_…_Dark_…"

Harry's eyes widened with realization.

"Come on, Dudley," Harry encouraged, all previous ill feelings forgotten. "We need to run. _Now_."

For some obscure reason—as he had never done so in the past—Dudley listened to Harry. Dudley began flat out sprinting, Harry himself following closely behind. They turned into a dark alley decorated with colorful graffiti, both realizing too late that it was a dead end.

"P-Potter." Dudley shuddered as he crumpled in on himself, face paler than parchment.

Harry watched with an incredulous expression as his cousin passed out. Good _god_. It was _summer_. Although torturous and mind-numbingly boring, it was supposedto be _safe._

"Expecto Patronum!" Harry cried as he turned around, but nothing but a few wisps came out of his wand. He watched helplessly as the dementor began sucking at his cousin's face, another coming closer to his own.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!" Harry screamed. He repeated the words with the air of a dying man as the dementor neared, bringing back painful memories of screams and green lights.

Happy thoughts, Harry reminded himself desperately as the dementor began sucking from him. He had to think of happy things. Images of Hermione and Ron and Hogwarts flashed through his head, but even as he continued whispering the saving words, no shining stag flew from his wand.

The dementor came closer, drawing more energy from him, and Harry's knees trembled before collapsing, bringing him to the floor. Hermione. Ron. Hogwarts. Warmth. Friendship…

"_Expecto Patronum_," Harry gasped, eyes unseeing as black consumed his vision.

And that's when he felt something stir at the back of his mind.

The stag burst forth, emerging triumphantly from his wand. Harry watched in awe as it galloped along the dank alley, chasing the dementors away.

He was just about to smile, when raw pain flooded his being, forcing him to recoil, his back bending violently and unnaturally as he pressed his hands tightly to his head. Black spots danced sporadically across his vision, before his eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out.

* * *

Harry cursed, groaning in pain he regained consciousness; he felt like he had been levitated and dropped repeatedly to the floor for numerous hours.

Pushing himself up slowly, he turned bleary eyes on the shelves around him, noting that he seemed to be in some sort of library.

Confused, Harry raised his hand to rub his eyes. Mid-motion, he stopped, shocked.

Rather than being calloused and scarred, his hands now appeared pale, but healthy, with long fingers that spoke of finesse and control.

Springing up from the floor with energy fueled by panic, Harry conjured a mirror, and leaned close to examine the stranger that looked back at him.

Dark, almost black hair, fell over a pale forehead, shadowing an angular, aristocratic face with high cheekbones and piercing amber eyes. Harry noted that the mouth appeared to have a natural curve to it, as though mocking even during perceived complacency.

He had seen this face before.

Somewhat out of it, Harry attempted to smile with this new face, wondering if his efforts would produce a twisted, garish vision befitting of his new body's corrupted soul.

The result was terrifying.

Because when Tom Marvolo Riddle smiled, he looked—Harry hesitated to apply the term, though it was undeniably true—angelic. Harry imagined that the smile was downright unholy, a contradiction to everything that was good and fair in the world.

Pushing back from the mirror, he ignored his slipping robes–Tom Riddle was tall, but his inhuman counterpart was apparently taller—and staggered out of the library, before stalking down the halls of wherever he was in search of an exit. He had to figure out what had happened to his own body. Because if Harry was in Voldemort's—_Tom Riddle's_—body, then Voldemort—or Riddle, or whatever his name was now—was probably…in his.

Losing his patience, he blasted a hole in the wall opposite him and stalked through the makeshift exit until he was outside in what appeared to be a very large and elaborate garden.

The dilemma, now, however, was how to get to Privet Drive. He supposed he could summon a broom, but hadn't he heard George and Fred mention something about an easier way of travelling…apparition, was it? Something about closing your eyes and envisioning the place…the three Ds? Thinking that he may as well give it a shot, Harry closed his eyes and concentrated on picturing Privet Drive in his head.

At first, nothing happened. But, just as he was about to give up, he began to feel a slow, awful tugging and pulling sensation, as though each part of him were being slowly disassembled and simultaneously reassembled. Suddenly, the sensation vanished, leaving Harry feeling distinctly nauseated.

Opening his eyes, Harry greeted the cool air of Privet Drive with a wary expression. His gaze then zeroed on the Dursleys' house. Dumbledore had mention something about blood wards having been instituted to keep him safe from…well, Voldemort. And yet, as he drew closer to the house, no such force stopped Harry—now effectively the Dark Lord—from entering.

"Alohomora," Harry whispered, unlocking the front door with frightening ease. Shutting the door behind him, he silently moved through the house and crept up the stairs.

After reaching the top, he approached the door at the end of the hall with trepidation. He stopped at the door for a moment, before mustering the courage to turn the handle, pushing it open violently.

Darkness surrounded him.

"So the boy-who-lived has deigned to drop by at my humble abode at last. I wondered how long it would take," a familiar voice—_Harry's _voice—spoke from the dark oblivion.

"Lumos," Harry whispered, and light filled the room, allowing him to glimpse the other. Dark green eyes, far more deadly looking than they had been in the past, looked out at him from under tousled black hair. A familiar face. _His _face.

Harry jaw tightened, his teeth gritting painfully before he finally forced the question out.

"_What happened_?"

"Really, Potter, have you not managed to figure that out yourself?" Tom Riddle drawled, his eyes narrowing like a predator's, "It really is a testament to my own carelessness that you have survived so long."

"I _know _we've switched bodies," Harry snapped, "what I want to know is _why_!"

Tom simply raised an eyebrow.

"You can't tell me our current state benefits you in anyway!" Harry exclaimed, his mind working quickly. "You're a Dark Lord without an army. Even _you_ can't fight a war like this."

"But that's where you are wrong, _Harry_," Tom whispered, leaning forward, green eyes almost glowing the cool, dark room, "In your body, I am the Boy-Who-Lived, savior of the light…I have access to every key member of my opposition, their plans, their tools…the position I possess now profits me tremendously."

Harry hissed, desperation making his jaw tighten. "Don't forget that I can do as much damage as you can. Thanks to whatever this was, I have a death eater army at my command, and if I remember correctly, they're all gunning for you now, aren't they?"

Was Riddle smirking? The other looked at him, a lazy expression on his face. "Do you really think a few subordinates could usurp me?"

No, he didn't. But Harry wasn't going admit that.

"Nevertheless," Tom continued nonchalantly, "as you have brought to my attention, you will require supervision."

"_Supervision?! _I'd rather you _killed _me—"

"Suicidal, Potter?" Tom drawled, drawing closer, and Harry just _knew _that the other was waiting for him to crumble, to fall to his knees and weep and beg—

At this realization, a cold chill swept through Harry's mind, putting everything oddly in perspective. A new mentality fit into place in his head, like a key finally finding its way into the right lock, and suddenly, everything was _so clear. _

"I'm going to kill you," Harry stated calmly, his tone soft and controlled, a stark contradiction to the frustrated, desperate boy he had appeared before.

His mouth seemed to possess a mind of it's own, and he had no control over the awful, twisted words that came out of his mouth next. "I'm going to kill you, Tom," Harry repeated, his amber eyes glowing with unnatural intensity, "And I will make it an extraordinary death, so spectacularly gruesome and violent that _no one_ will ever speak of it, but it will befit you because of all the awful things you have done in your life time. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will have a 'demise' that will never be spoken of by a _single soul_, but it shall remain in their minds until their deaths, and on that day, the day when they die, their memory and fear of you shall die with them, and you will be gone from this world at last, Tom Marvolo Riddle. Forever. And _I_ willbe the cause."

Laughter, shocked, yet still mocking, rang throughout the room. Eyes wide, Harry glanced at the Dark Lord.

"They think you're so innocent, don't they?" Tom murmured, his hand forcefully grasping Harry's hair and tilting his head to him. "Their little golden savior, the perfect Gryffindor, the loyal friend—brash, brave, foolish at times, but deliciously vulnerable. They love _it_, don't they? You've played the part for them so well—"

Harry sneered. "Clearly, you're so desperate to justify your failure to kill me off, that you've fabricated me into some sort of super villain who is just as twisted and manipulative as you are. You can't _imagine _that anything else could have defeated you. That _love, _friendship, bravery, and honor could have any power. You're so self-involved that you think that the only thing that could rival you is yourself."

"You think I'm a megalomaniac?" Tom interrupted conversationally, his face coolly amused, "Very well, let's examine this assertion. Megalomania. The condition of possessing false delusions of power and grandeur, a skewed perception of the self and surroundings, and a foundless sense of omnipotence. Now, first, in order to be a megalomaniac, my claim to power and grandeur would have to be delusional, and thus, _false_. However, it is truth that I am the most powerful wizard alive. This is a fact acknowledged by the entire wizarding world. There is no delusion involved in this assessment of myself. Therefore, my perception of myself is not 'skewed', and by extension, my perception of others as weak in comparison is not a 'fabrication' either. As for my claim to omnipotence, I have never made any. Omnipotence implies command of God-like powers, and thus, God-like responsibilities, and though I seek to rule and rebuild this world, I do not intend to embody him in the traditional sense: I am not merciful, and I do not intend to watch over and protect all the pathetic human beings on this planet. Therefore, your attempts at psychoanalysis are woefully incorrect. Now, having that cleared up, _my _analysis of you nevertheless stands."

"You've emulated the public's ideal of their Boy-Who-Lived from the moment you walked into Hogwarts, haven't you?" Tom asked, leaning forward with an intensity and _hunger _in his eyes that disconcerted Harry, "Not too smart, not too independent—that would be dangerous—but not dumb, either…brave and bold, and curiously powerful during times of need. But not all the time, or that would concern them as well…only when you needed to be—"

"Shut up," Harry snapped, "Don't project yourselfonto me, _Tom_. It wasn't a performance. That's who I am, and—"

"But you're young, and naïve, and new to the game. You must have slipped. Numerous times, no doubt. And they no doubt turned against you. Did they call you evil, Harry? Did they call you the _next Dark Lord_—"

"_Shut up._"

Tom paused for a second, a smirk on his face. "Nevertheless, what I would_ really _like to know is what _you _did to _my _body."

Tom circled him, his gaze roving around his person as he clearly took his former sixteen-year-old form.

Harry kept his voice even and his face blank as he responded, "I didn't _do_ anything. When I woke up, it was like this."

Tom opened his mouth to respond, when a loud crash sounded from below them.

Both tried to quiet their breathing as footsteps climbed up the stairs, voices echoing carelessly off the walls.

Then the voices stopped, and Harry watched with wide eyes as the lock to the door unclicked and the knob slowly began to turn.

Tom pulled out his wand in a lightning quick motion, and Harry followed quickly, pulling an unfamiliar wand that felt oddly comfortable in his hold from the folds of his robe. They both bent behind the bed, positioning themselves so that the door was in their direct line of sight.

The door opened.

"Lower your wand, boys, before you take someone's eye out," said a low, growling voice.

Light from the mysterious figure's wand lit up the room, revealing the grizzled, mismatched of renowned auror, Alastor Moody.

"Mad-Eye," a female voice called from behind. The woman stepped to the fore, revealing a young witch with vivid hair, "there are two of them. Aren't we supposed to pick up only one?"

"Who is this, Harry?" a tall, ragged looking man asked Tom. With a shock, Harry realized that it was Lupin; the urge to run and embrace him was nearly overwhelming.

"Oooh, he looks just like I thought he would," the violet-haired witch chimed in.

"Harry—" Lupin began again.

"—Are you quite sure it's him, Remus?" the auror growled, "It'd be a nice lookout if we bring back some Death Eater impersonating him."

Harry looked at Mad-Eye in awe. Was it possible? Was someone going to realize this entire fiasco and stop Voldemort before he could even do anything?

"What form does your Patronus take?" asked Lupin. Harry covertly glanced at Tom, a smirk playing on his lips. There was no way he kn—

"A stag." Tom answered confidently.

"That's him, Mad-Eye," Lupin affirmed.

Harry looked at him in shock. How—? Wait. Before he had passed out, he had cast his Patronus. Had Tom seen it after they had switched bodies?

"Who's the other one, boy?" the auror interrogated, his magical eye spinning in its socket.

"He was the one who saved me from the dementor attack," Tom lied smoothly.

Yes, Tom had seen it all.

"The ministry has sent the commands for a hearing to Dumbledore for the use of underage magic," Lupin stated quietly, "On _your _wand."

Tom sent him a look then, clearly signaling him to explain the rest. Harry gritted his teeth in refusal, but then the other's hand moved to his wand, and his glance flicked oh so suggestively in Lupin's direction.

"He'd dropped it, so I picked it up and cast the spell." Harry muttered, trying to sound as unconvincing as possible, "I'd been out when I felt them. The dementors. When I was running, I saw two boys being attacked by them, one with a wand at his feet. So, I just did what anyone else would have done, I picked up the wand and cast the spell."

"Facing dementors takes great bravery," Lupin commented seriously.

"And great power," Moody added suspiciously, "Who are you, boy?"

"Tom Gaunt," Tom replied for him, "He told me his mother was too poor to pay for Hogwarts tutelage, so he was homeschooled. But she passed away recently, and he's homeless now. It's why he was staying with me. It was the least I could do in return for saving my life."

"Hogwarts has financial aid scholarships, though," said Lupin stated, a concerned but slightly suspicious expression on his face. "You should have been enrolled without an issue."

"There are those who get left behind," Moody grunted, "unfortunate truth of the matter. Ministry allows the school to only accept a certain number of students without school fees. No matter now, you'll be coming with us."

"Thank you," Harry returned, his smile pained.

"Well now, no more dilly-dallying," the auror snapped, "pack your things and come downstairs. We don't have all day for this."

The purple-haired witch rolled her eyes as he stormed down the stairs, followed by the rest. "Name's Tonks," she offered with a wink, "I'll help you pack your things up."

"No need," Tom replied calmly, "my trunk is already packed."

"And I've only got my wand," Harry muttered, waving it weakly.

"Oh," the witch blinked. She opened her mouth to say something else, but then she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her mouth twisted in disapproval.

"Is something the matter?" Tom asked, his tone unfailingly polite and charismatic. Harry cringed as Tonks seemed to become even more enthusiastic with the attention.

"I don't think purple's the right color for me," she replied with great concern. She closed her eyes with fierce concentration; after a couple of seconds, the violent shade of purple because a violent shade of bubblegum pink. She then examined herself once more. "Much better. What d'you think?"

"Lovely," Tom answered with a curve to his lips, clearly calculated to be charming and alluring. Harry looked at his face in shock…his own face…doing _that…_

"I think they're waiting for us," he interjected hastily, "we should probably go down."

"Right," the auror replied with a bright smile. "Let's go." She led them down the stairs, and together, they exited the house and joined the others at the front lawn.

"Heard you liked flying by broom, Potter," Mad-Eye called to Tom, "we'll be flying to our destination."

The grizzled auror handed them each a broom, and signaled for them to get into position.

Silently, he raised his wand to the air, and let off two proprietary sparks.

Then, with a significant look, he released the third spark.

And they took off.

* * *

Harry was the first to land, followed shortly by Tom and then the others. Cursing to himself, he rubbed his hands fervently together, trying to generate some form of heat between his numb fingers.

"Here," Moody grunted, handing him a note, "read it and memorize it."

Tom and Harry looked down at the piece of parchment.

_THE HEADQUARTERS OF THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX MAY BE FOUND AT NUMBER TWELVE GRIMMAULD PLACE, LONDON._

Horror flooded Harry's being, as he glanced at the triumph in Tom's eyes.

Moody burned the piece of parchment, before leading them all across the street. Without hesitation, the auror tapped confidently on a brick in the pavement, and before their eyes, another complex appeared between the former two, one with a brass plaque on it: Grimmauld Place, House of Black.

"Sirius." Harry whispered, his voice both joyful and melancholy.

The doorbell rang, and was opened shortly by a short middle-aged woman with flaming red hair. Immediately, at the moment she saw his face, Tom was engulfed in a suffocating hug. Had it been anyone else, Harry would have laughed; but the sight of the warm-hearted Weasley matriarch hugging the young Dark Lord made something awful twist in Harry's stomach.

"Oh, Harry dear!" she cried, her calloused hand tousling Tom's hair affectionately; unable to help himself, Harry eyed the motherly touch with longing. "You have no idea how wonderful it is to have you here! Ron and Hermione will be overjoyed!"

"Thank you for having me," Tom replied politely.

"Not at all. You are _always _welcome." Mrs. Weasley said sternly. Then she looked behind Tom to look at Harry. "And who is this?"

"A friend," Lupin supplied from behind Harry, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder. "He'll be staying with us."

"Oh," Mrs. Weasley blinked, before offering him a warm smile as well, "Well, let me call down the others. And come in! Come in!—" she turned behind her to yell up the stairs—"_Ron! Hermione! _Come down. Harry's here!"

Harry watched with wide eyes as two figures came running down the stairs. Immediately, the two figures launched themselves at Tom. The young Dark Lord looked at Harry over their embrace with a smirk, allowing Hermione to place a kiss on his cheek. Harry's palms tightened painfully into fists.

Tom's smirk only widened. "How have you been, Hermione? Ron?"

"Harry! We're fine, but how are you? Are you all right? Have you been furious with us? I bet you have, I know our letters were useless—but we, we've got so much to tell you, and you've got things to tell us—the Dementors! When we heard—and that Ministry hearing—it's just outrageous, I've looked it all up, they can't expel you, they just can't, there's a provision in the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery for the use of magic in life-threatening situations—"

"Let him breathe, Hermione," the red head, Ron, said, sending a easy grin towards Tom. "Good to see you, mate."

"Harry," Hermione asked. She had finally seen Harry. "Who is that?"

Feeling altogether depressed, Harry, eyes lowered, began to reintroduce himself. "My name's Tom—"

"He's mine."

All members present froze at the statement. Hermione's cheeks flushed, turning a light pink.

_"_W-What?" Lupin choked out.

"He's mine," Tom repeated coolly.

Harry's eyes snapped to Tom's, fury lighting them a glowing amber. Whatever restraints he had placed on his temper previously were gone now, and he let the raw anger show on his face, making several members in the room draw back warily.

"Am I, now?" Harry responded, his voice low cold, "It seems you've neglected to inform _me_ of this new development."

"I thought it was obvious," Tom stated calmly, but something mocking flashed through his green eyes.

And Harry knew what the other was implying. Like a puppet on a string, his life had always been dictated by Tom'sactions, but…

No. Harry had always been his own individual, and he had always made his _own _decisions. It had been his _choice _to go after the stone, his _choice _to go down to the Chamber of Secrets, always his _choice_. Because it had been the right thing to do.

"I am not a possession, I am not something you can, _by definition_, possess." Harry told him in cool monotone, echoing his earlier language. "Do not attempt to do so."

There was a long silence in which they stared at each other, Harry defiant, Tom amused, while everyone else in the room watched them.

"Harry, dear," Mrs. Weasley said hastily, her cheeks a little red, "Have you had dinner? Why don't I prepare some food for you? You must be starving. The meeting is still running, but it should be done soon, and you can eat then. Let me show you to your room in the meantime. You can share with Ron and—"

"No need," Tom responded smoothly, "Tom and I can share a room by ourselves."

The silence returned.

"Oh." Mrs. Weasley said weakly at last. "Well, then. Of course. If that's what you want."

"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley."

And then, grasping his arm in a painful, bruising hold, Tom led Harry up the stairs and away from the others.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Please read and review!

* * *

_—Chapter Two—_

* * *

Tom sat on the bed, perusing one of the novels he had found on the bookshelf with a nonchalant expression, while Harry placed himself protectively in front of the door, as though to shield the rest of the world from Tom.

Harry glared at the untroubled figure in front of him. "There's only _one bed_."

"You can sleep on the floor."

"Why do _I _have to sleep on the floor? You're the evil one."

Tom looked up from the book, a mocking expression on his face. "It's incredible how sometimes you _appear _to have something in that head of yours, and then, during moments like these, you force me to reconsider all my assessments of you."

"Is that your sophisticated way of calling me stupid?" Harry questioned, eyebrow raised, "Cutting. Really. I don't know how I'll ever recover."

"Have you noticed this habit of yours, Harry?" Tom responded, shutting the book, his green eyes examining Harry, "Your penchant for simplifying? I did not call you stupid. I only highlighted a certain duality in your behavior, rather paradoxical, in fact: how your acceptance in the face of adversity surpasses that of most grown adults, and yet you seem to view the world around you with a childish idealism, categorizing everything simply into 'good' and 'evil'—rather uncharacteristic from the worldliness most would rationally expect of one in your situation."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean 'of one in my situation'?"

Tom's eyes darkened, but a pleasant, blatantly fake smile remained on his face. "Of course, of one who has been abused."

"_Abused!_" Harry sputtered, standing up, "What the hell are you talking about, Riddle? I have never been abused!"

If anything, Tom's face seemed to become even more pleasant, sharpening the contrast between his superficial expression and the darkening in his eyes. "I assume the fact that my current body is well undernourished and abnormally pale is simply coincidental, then? And not due to being locked in a room and starved for weeks on end?"

"Th-that's not _abuse_," Harry persisted, "The Dursleys don't like me, is all. And plus, I wasn't _starved_; I always had food."

He couldn't let Riddle go off thinking he was _abused_, or some nonsense like that. That would make him appear weak, vulnerable, and he couldn't afford to look that way in their current situation. And it simply wasn't true, anyways.

A knock sounded on the door, interrupting Harry's thoughts.

"Come in," Tom called, placing the book on the bedside table and standing up. The door opened, and Mrs. Weasley walked in.

"Mrs. Weasley," Tom smiled charmingly, "you don't have to knock."

"I didn't want to interrupt anything," Mrs. Weasley replied in a no-nonsense tone, straightening the sheets.

"You can be assured, we will keep those activities out of the house," Tom returned, a light smirk on his lips.

"Harry!" his best friend's mother exclaimed, actually losing her balance.

The actual Harry looked on at the scene before him in confusion. Why was Mrs. Weasley _blushing_? And what was Tom _talking _about? Activities…

Suddenly, Tom's earlier words flashed though his mine.

_He's mine_.

They couldn't…they couldn't _possibly _think…

"In any case," Mrs. Weasley said, recovering herself and continuing as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, "Dinner is ready now. Sirius is waiting for you."

"Of course," Harry said fervently, his eyes already tracing the path downstairs. Sirius…

His body jolted forward, when an arm wrapped around his waist, forcibly restraining him. Harry knew from Mrs. Weasley's sudden interest in the carpet that it looked benign, perhaps even intimate, but in truth, the contact was painful and punishing.

"Careful, Potter." The words were whispered close, the other's lips brushing his ear.

Harry pulled away abruptly, ignoring the pain the movement brought him. "By all means," he gestured grandly, indicating to Tom that he should go first.

Sending a mocking smile that set Harry's teeth on edge, Tom exited the room first, setting a calm pace that forced Harry to go just as slowly. His eyes traced over the ancient house they were in, his stomach rolling at the sight of decapitated elf heads lined up in enclosures fixed to the walls of the staircase.

As they neared the hallway leading to the dining room, Harry was able to smell the recently made food, the delicious scents consuming his senses. His stomach grumbled loudly, and he tried to recall the last time he had eaten. He couldn't remember.

"Harry!" Sirius cried as they entered, standing up to embrace Tom. Harry jaw tensed, eyes stinging. All summer, he had longed to see his godfather, and now when he actually did…Tom smirked at him from over Sirius's shoulder, as though hearing his thoughts.

That _bastard_.

Harry quietly took a seat next to Tonks, who was busy entertaining Ginny with various transformations, first the beak of a duck, then a snout of some canine, and ending with the trunk of a small elephant, before Mrs. Weasley put a stop to it with a sharp look.

"That's right, everyone's here now," Mrs. Weasley said with a wide smile, and with a wave of her wand, the food appeared on the table.

While George and Fred wrestled over who would get to the mashed potatoes first, Tom calmly took a seat on the right side of Sirius, directly opposite Harry himself. Harry glared at the pudding.

"Sirius, what is this? What is the Order of the Phoenix?" Tom asked innocently. The question was directed at his godfather, but Tom's eyes were on his.

Sirius leaned back in his chair, a serious expression on his face. "The Order of the Phoenix was an organization established by Dumbledore during the first war to fight Voldemort and his followers. It was a dark time, Harry, the ministry was in shambles, almost on the brink of falling apart—it was chaos, no one knew who to trust, who to follow—but with the Order, we had a semblance of a resistance. Your parents…James and Lily…were members."

Harry swallowed the rice harshly, his amber eyes focused raptly on Sirius.

"So it's been activated again, because Voldemort's back," Tom responded softly, but his green eyes were razor sharp, almost burning.

"Exactly," Sirius nodded.

"And what is the Order planning?" Tom asked, leaning forward. Harry instantly became tense. Sirius had to stop, he couldn't reveal—

"Sirius," Mrs. Weasley warned, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. "They are far too young for this conversation."

Sirius hesitated, looking at Tom carefully, as though sizing him up. Tom looked back, unflinchingly, and whatever hesitation Sirius may have had appeared to vanish.

"Harry," Sirius began slowly, "Voldemort…he's searching for something, something he didn't have the first time around…"

"Sirius!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed.

"A weapon?" Hermione asked, hands stilling from their methodical dissection of the beef. Harry's grip tightened painfully on his fork.

"Of sorts," Remus responded vaguely, giving Sirius a look of warning.

"A powerful one, if placed in his hands," Sirius said passionately, ignoring Remus, "one with which, he could—"

"ENOUGH!"

Harry relaxed.

Shocked, everyone turned and looked at the panting matriarch of the Weasley family. The room was utterly silent, as Mrs. Weasley glared furiously at Sirius.

"They aren't even of age yet, Sirius! They're _children_—"

"They should know the truth, Molly," Sirius growled, "these 'children' have faced more than most grown wizards do in their entire life time! And while _we_ may make a distinction between child and adult, war does not. _Voldemort _does not. War doesn't spare children, and _Harry _happens to be right in the middle of this! He should know what's going on!"

A strange expression came onto Mrs. Weasley's face then, and she appeared to choose her following words with care.

"Sirius…Harry is _not _James."

Harry watched as Sirius froze, before something dangerous glinted in his eyes. "…What?"

"Sirius," Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips, her expression tight, "you want Harry to fill the void left behind by James. You want to pull him into this war so that this _hellish _mess can be…can be your 'next great adventure'—fighting side by side, resurrecting the glory of your school days. But Harry _isn't_ an adult. He isn't your best friend, and he most certainly is not a fellow soldier. He's a _child_. He's _Harry_. And what he needs isn't a reckless overgrown child goading him into foolish risk-taking, but an adult who looks after him!"

"How…dare…you…" Sirius hissed, but that seemed to be all he could manage in his rage.

Silence reigned throughout the room. Harry looked at Mrs. Weasley, shocked and joyful. He had had no idea that Mrs. Weasley…cared so much. And he was grateful for another reason too, because she also appeared to be the only person who was making things go Harry's way.

Harry's gaze shot to Tom instantly, a snarl on his lips. As the pseudo 'Harry," Tom had a worried expression on his face as he gazed on the fight brewing between two people he cared dearly for, but Harry—apparently the person able to—saw the cruel glint in Tom's green eyes.

And didn't that just set his blood boiling.

"Um," Harry interjected, making sure he sounded innocuous, "not to interrupt or anything, but I really do wonder if you should be talking about this stuff in front of _me_. I mean, we just met and everything..."

Everyone blinked, turning to look at him as though he had just appeared. Tom's eyes flashed to his, green eyes coldly amused by his antics.

"Tom, you saved me from the death eaters," Tom said earnestly, leaning forward to clasp his hand, "I trust you with my life."

Harry gazed at the hand holding his with revulsion. Although Harry had to admit that the contact itself wasn't…unpleasant, it was rather the motivations behind it that infuriated him. Harry was—even he could admit it—an extremely tactile person; he actively sought physical affection from those close to him, because he'd never had any as a child.

And Tom, somehow, had seen his desire for physical contact, had read it in him, and was now using it to make the other know that he was aware of his vulnerabilities.

Harry opened his mouth to snap something, when the strangest sensation washed over him, as though his ears were blocked and he couldn't breathe and he was hung upside down and somehow floating, free from gravity. It was the most unnerving sensation ever; it didn't quite hurt, but in a way, Harry wished that it had. Pain would have been welcome in contrast to this _nothingness_.

And then suddenly, everything rushed back to him, and he could breathe again, and feel his feet, and wiggle his toes. And when he opened his eyes, he stared back into similarly dazed amber eyes.

After a slow second that seemed to last for infinity, green eyes widened, realization flashing through the dark orbs.

Harry was looking at Tom, in _Tom's_ own body. Which meant that he was in his…Which meant that…

If Tom were in his own body, then Harry…really had no qualms with asphyxiating the other.

"Are you two alright?" Hermione asked concerned, but Harry barely registered her speak, a feral smile spreading across his face.

_Finally_.

Harry lunged across the dining table, knocking over the bowl of soup and glasses of punch and sending the salad flying into Ron's surprised face. He landed heavily on Tom, both of them tipping the chair over until they landed with a thump on the floor.

Tom's hands tightened painfully around his wrists, which were already reaching for the other's throat. What commenced was an awkward struggle between two more or less evenly matched opponents, within the tight space underneath a dining table between Tom's chair and Tonks's chair.

It was hard to keep from being pushed off, but Harry tightened his legs around the other's waist, his fingers twitching hungrily to grasp and squeeze the other's throat. Then too soon, that awful sensation of nothing flashed through him again. Next thing he knew, he was looking up into blazing green eyes, and he was the one under.

Tom's grip on him was vicious, and he found himself being pulled into the other, a hand entwined roughly in his hair, bringing his head forward until his chin rested on his neck.

Harry struggled violently against this forced submission, something in him snarling. He could pull free, and he could do it even faster if he could reach the wand in his boot—

"Move," Tom whispered into his ear, too quietly for the others to hear, "and I kill the mudblood."

Harry froze immediately, his body reluctantly still in the other's embrace.

Then, looking up, Tom's body still on top of him, Harry finally became aware of the audience watching them.

"Harry? Tom?" Remus asked, apparently the first to remember how to speak, "What…happened?"

Tom finally moved off of Harry, standing up.

A charming smile appeared on his face. "I apologize for the scene we just made. Tom gets rather agitated if he goes too long without intercourse. I should have been cognizant of his increasingly unstable situation. I assure you that such a situation will not occur again."

"What the h—" Harry cried, but a lazy flick of Tom's wand in Hermione's direction stopped him again.

Seething, his gaze then happened upon his other best friend, whose blood seemed to have drained out of his face, as though he had quite accidentally discovered a strange new species of deadly acromantula.

"Harry," Sirius spoke incredibly slowly from the opposite side of the room, "I…I had no idea that you were…so inclined."

"Not that there's anything wrong with it!" Remus added hastily, "But we always thought…"

Both of their glances shot towards Hermione.

Harry snapped. "Quite honestly, don't we have far more pressing matters to deal with?" he said with great disgust, "Like, from what I've gathered so far, another _wizarding war_?"

"Of course," Remus agreed with an embarrassed expression. But no one else said anything, merely continuing to stare at the both of them in silence, until Mrs. Weasley—god bless her soul, Harry thought—finally intervened.

"For Merlin's sake," Mrs. Weasley huffed, drawing herself up, "leave the poor boys alone! It's nearing midnight and the two look dead on their feet! Harry, Tom, off to bed with the both of you. Your lights better be off in five minutes!"

"Of course, Mrs. Weasley," Tom smiled, his hand latching onto Harry's wrist. With a nod to the others, he gently led Harry down the hall until they were out of sight, until dragging him up the stairs and into their room.

Harry was shoved none to gently in, the door slamming behind the both of them. Hissing, in one swift continuous moment, Harry pulled his wand from his boot and whipped around to face the other, finding his old wand directly in front of his face.

Not dissuaded in the least, Harry kept his wand aloft, his expression vicious. "How did we switch bodies again? _And why did we switch back_?"

"Really, Harry?" Tom murmured, a chilling smile dancing on his lips, ignoring his words without remorse, "Was that a murder attempt? From the precious angel of Gryffindor?"

Something deadly flashed across Harry's face. "Well, we all know I'd be doing the world a favor. Now, why don't you figure out how we can switch back, so that I can do the damn deed properly—."

Laughter filled the room, razor sharp and cutting. And Tom was actually _laughing_, head tilted back, exposed neck, teeth bared.

Before he could pursue a second murder attempt, Harry violently turned to exit the room. Just as he reached the door, however, he felt the other come up behind him, close enough that he could feel Tom's breath against his ear, the mocking laughter still thick in his voice.

"You're more like me than you want to admit, Harry."

That night, he fell asleep to the sound of that laughter.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note:

So, I decided to change the story so that Tom introduces Harry as "Tom Gaunt" rather than "Nicolas Gaunt," mainly for the purposes of convenience and uniformity between when Harry and Tom are referring to themselves and when other people are referring to them.

Also, I would like to thank everyone who reviewed. All the reviews were so very nice, and they really motivated me to write more *hint *hint

I would like to thank, especially, Egyptian Dreamer, Antediluvian Poet, and catglitch. Your reviews were very thoughtful and made my day :)

Please continue to review!

* * *

_—Chapter Three—_

* * *

Weeks had passed since they had arrived at Grimmauld Place. The rather uneventful period of time had been spent assisting in the cleaning of the ancient house, polishing all the heirlooms and clearing out the boggarts and dust that had made it uninhabitable.

Oddly enough, Harry and Tom had managed to fall into a strange sort of rhythm during the era of relative monotony.

The shifting, the first incident of which they had experienced on their first night at Grimmauld Place, had continued. One second they would be within the other's body, the next, miraculously returned to their own. But only temporarily. Always temporarily.

Nevertheless, the two had managed, as stated, to fall into an odd sort of rhythm amidst the utter oddness of their predicament, and it _had _become easier.

But that didn't mean that Harry hated the situation any less.

It almost frightened him how Tom's body felt as comfortable and familiar as his own, how both of them barely even blinked now when the moment of sense deprivation occurred and they switched.

First time they had returned to their bodies, it had been a mere minute (the unfortunate dinner table incident). Then it had been an hour. Then four hours. Then half a day. Then three quarters of day. He was hardly a genius, but even Harry could tell that the increase in the length of time was getting infinitesimally smaller.

The apparent connection between them had quickly dissuaded Harry from pursuing another murder attempt, for fear of killing only himself, and somehow leaving the other alive to lay ravage to the world. If Tom proved more dangerous in the coming weeks, however, Harry would reevaluate his stance.

Honestly, Harry doubted Tom knew anymore about their situation than he did. Though, it wasn't like the bastard spoke to him about this stuff, anyways. For all he knew, Tom could have figured the whole thing out by now, and was merely amusing himself with watching Harry squirm.

Growling at the thought, Harry clutched the bottle and sprayed, instantly immobilizing a pair of unlucky doxies.

"Tom?" Mrs. Weasley called from the hallway. Putting down the bottle, Harry wiped some of the sweat off his forehead and moved to the door, sticking his head out.

"Yes, Mrs. Weasley?" Harry asked, trying to give his best friend's mother a smile in return. He tried not to let it get to him, but sometimes the polite, distant, smile on Mrs. Weasley's face—from the one person who had used to mother him and care for him like a parent—caused his chest to tighten painfully.

That and the suspicious, guarded looks he had been receiving from Hermione and Ron ever since the unfortunate dinner table incident. In the past weeks, his contact with them, even as 'Harry', had been limited, isolated as they were in cleaning separate parts of the house; he had a curious feeling that Mrs. Weasley was keeping them apart on purpose.

"Have you seen Harry?" Mrs. Weasley asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Harry's lips twisted, as he thought about Tom. "No. What d'you need him for?"

"Honestly, that boy!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, planting her arms on her hips. "The hearing is at noon! And you! Not even dressed properly!"

Harry looked at the floor in shock. The…the hearing! How could he have forgotten? He could be _expelled _from Hogwarts if this hearing didn't go well. He couldn't believe—

"Did I hear my name?" a voice spoke from behind them, familiar but somehow deeper than usual. Both turned, to see Tom leaning casually against one of the doors in the hallway, his clothing formal and all black for the occasion.

Harry's eye twitched at the color typically only seen on purebloods; the other was practically screaming questionable affiliations, which honestly, Harry could not afford. He had seen the articles in the Daily Prophet—_The Boy-Who-Lied_ had become his new moniker—and he knew that journalists like Rita Skeeter were by no means above criticizing his clothing for evidence of his purported 'transition to the Dark.'

"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley exhaled, sending a sharp look at his clothing, but opting to say nothing aloud about it, "Tom, you should get dressed too, something a little more formal than that t-shirt and those ripped jeans, please. There's no time to eat, but I've packed some sandwiches to take with the both of you and given them to Arthur."

Harry moved to go upstairs to change, when suddenly, the world spun out of control, and his vision went white. When he came to, and he found himself staring at Mrs. Weasley and Tom from across the hall, now in his own body.

"Well?" Mrs. Weasley prompted, "Off with the both of you!"

"R-right," Harry replied swiftly, adapting to the change. He shot a glance at Tom with a blank face, observing the rapid calculations occurring behind the other's eyes at the switch.

Needless to say, Harry was glad with this new scenario. He didn't know who would be at that hearing, and while it seemed counterproductive for Tom to get him expelled from Hogwarts (where Dumbledore and many members of the Order would be), he had made it a principle to always second-guess the other's motives.

Moving down the staircase, he was unsurprised when Tom joined him only a couple of seconds later, wearing something similar to his own outfit.

Harry had observed over the weeks that Tom could use magic without a wand, a phenomenon he had been until recently completely unaware of as even _possible_. The realization of his own naivety had instigated a long-lasting chill throughout his body, and he had watched the other with even more attentive eyes since. In addition, in his spare time, he had started sifting through books in the Black library in hopes of picking it up himself; but, despite his ambitions, Harry had yet to be successful at performing wandless magic.

Harry shot Tom a long look of loathing, and while doing so, almost walked into Sirius, who was sitting on one of the steps seemingly waiting for them.

Harry came to an abrupt halt, looking at Sirius with shocked, but happy eyes. Seeing his godfather, no matter the circumstances, always made him feel lighter. "Sirius!"

Sirius stood up, an uncharacteristic grim expression on his face as he looked at Harry. "You'll be fine today, okay?" he said gruffly, grasping his shoulders. "The law's on your side—even wizards who are underage can use magic in life-threatening situations. If anything happens, _I'll _set Amelia Bones straight."

Harry looked up with wide-eyes at the taller man, before hugging him tightly, breathing in the oddly pleasant scent of cigarette smoke and motorcycles.

"Thanks," Harry rasped quietly, before pulling back, trying to look unaffected lest Tom find something else to exploit. "I'll see you later, Sirius."

He moved to continue down the staircase, the dress shoes that had no doubt been borrowed from one of the immense closets of prior Blacks clacking loudly despite the carpeted steps, when Sirius spoke again.

"Harry…no matter what, no matter what they say, do _not _lose your temper."

Sirius's voice was not vague and impersonal, offering a random piece of cautionary advice. It was knowing.

He _knew_.

Harry froze, muscles unconsciously tightening. Closing his eyes tightly, he took deep breaths, despite the increasing tightening of his fists.

So Sirius had seen it, then. Despite all his efforts.

He had hidden it so well from Hermione, from Ron and the rest of the Weasleys, from the Order, but Tom and _Sirius _had seen it. The boiling rage that had been rising up in him, culminating now after years in the making. How sick he was of Dumbledore's need-to-know attitude, how—despite the dementor attack which should have sent up a _goddamn red flag_—he still hadn't seen the older wizard, how Dumbledore never seemed to be _there _when he was needed, when Harry needed him, how Dumbledore never told him _anything_—

How he was so _angry_, all the time, because these people believed in him, and they were going to _die _because he didn't know what to do.

And all those articles, all those _fucking _articles. Harry had tried to pretend that they didn't affect him, had even laughed at some of them when he was at the dining table, but each word had jarred something in him. _Boy-Who-Lived Becomes Boy Who Lied? Potter, Plotter, Liar Too? Harry Potter "Disturbed And Dangerous!" _

All of it.

_Everything._

It just made him _so fucking angry_.

But Harry had tried so hard to hide it from Sirius, the one person he had wanted most to preserve of him that pristine image of James and Lily's son.

Trembling, Harry stalked down the stairs without another word, leaving Sirius behind without an answer.

"You're cracking, Harry," Tom stated clinically, his words echoing hellishly in the dark staircase as he followed him downwards.

Harry stopped at the foot of the stairs and laughed, distantly aware that he sounded raving mad. "What? My mask? This persona of mine, is it slipping, Tom?"

"No," Tom said slowly, eyes sharpening, "Not a mask, not even a persona. A shield."

Before he could even process what was happening, Harry found himself slammed against the side of the wall. Tom looked at him with disdainful eyes.

"How…pathetic."

Harry reared up, pushing the other away and succeeding more because Tom hadn't been expecting it than any superior strength.

"Don't you…" Harry gasped, "_ever_—"

"The two of you ready, then?" Mr. Weasley asked from around the corner the dark hallway leading down to the entrance. The older man couldn't see them, but Harry was sure he had heard their footsteps, maybe even more.

"Yes," Tom answered succinctly, something hidden but malicious moving behind his eyes. Alarm flashed through Harry, and without thinking, he grabbed the other's arm and yanked him back until they both hit the wall again with a sharp exhalation.

Harry tightened his grip painfully on the other. "I don't know what you're planning, but _you will not take Hogwarts from me, Tom_."

Tom's amber eyes intensified and, in the blink of an eye, he broke free of Harry's hold and turned, caging Harry in against the wall. The proximity of the other was electrifying, sending bursts of adrenaline rushing headily through Harry's veins.

"And what will you give me, Harry, if I cooperate at your hearing?" Tom murmured mockingly, his eyes hooded but failing to hide the dangerous excitement in them.

"What…do you want?" Harry gritted out, struggling to say the words. But he…he couldn't let go of Hogwarts.

Tom smiled, a wide, sharp derisive grin, leaning back from Harry.

"Lessons."

Harry barked out an incredulous laugh, the sound emerging surprisingly dark, "Think you can turn me into a dark-arts loving sycophant, Tom?"

Tom smirked slowly, a lazy expression on his face. "You didn't allow me to finish. If you want me to cooperate at you hearing, Potter, then you will allow me to give you lessons on one specific subject, and one subject only: Occlumency."

Harry blinked. "Occlu— what?"

Tom only gazed at him, seemingly bored.

"Is it illegal?"

"No."

"Will it hurt anyone?"

"No."

"Will it weaken me in any way?"

"No."

Harry looked at the other suspiciously, trying to determine his motives. Why would Tom—_Voldemort_—want to offer him _lessons_? Was he trying to make his enemy stronger? Make the final duel a little more interesting?

Despite his rampant paranoia, however, Harry couldn't find a legitimate reason for him to refuse.

"Fine," Harry snarled, regretting the word as soon as it left his lips.

"Excellent," Tom said slowly, with relish.

"Boys! Hurry up!" Mr. Weasley called, "You don't want to be late!"

Both moved to join the entrance, nodding to Mr. Weasley, and put on their coats to keep them dry from the rain outside. Just as they were about to exit Grimmauld Place through the door, however, Harry heard soft footsteps from the opposite direction, and a soft, warm hand wrap itself around his wrist.

Turning, Harry's eyes widened in surprise. "Ginny."

Almost as tall as him, Ginny only had to lean on her toes a little to wrap her arms around Harry. Shocked, Harry grasped hesitantly at her Holyhead Harpies jersey, and patted his best friend's sister awkwardly on her head, ignoring Tom's burning gaze.

Leaning back, Ginny looked up at Harry with warm, brown eyes, smelling sharply of cinnamon from the kitchen. "I just wanted to wish you luck before the hearing, Harry."

Despite the dark mood he had been in seconds before, and all the anger that had been raging in him, Harry felt himself relaxing at her unexpected, unburdened kindness, like a blessed cool breeze in the seventh circle of hell.

"Thank you, Ginny."

Ginny smiled at him, before her warm eyes shifted sharply to Tom, gazing at him almost…challengingly. "You too, Gaunt."

Tom grinned mockingly, all teeth, and Harry was surprised that he didn't even attempt to provide a semblance of friendliness. "None needed."

Harry looked at Ginny's hostile expression with surprise.

He had hoped, at the very beginning, that Ginny would recognize Tom and be able to inform the others of his identity (Harry was watched like a hawk, and thus couldn't), but the red head had never shown even a hint of recognition. It seemed that, despite her thousands of conversations with the young Dark Lord through the diary, Ginny had never seen his face.

Maybe Tom just…_inherently _pissed off Ginny—his personality or something. Harry grinned at the thought, glad that someone else was finally able to see through Tom's two-facedness.

"Tom, Harry," Mr. Weasley said sternly, "we need to leave now."

Harry nodded, squeezing Ginny's shoulder with newfound camaraderie. "I'll see you later, Ginny."

Tom didn't even glance at Ginny, stepping forwards to wrap his arm loosely around Harry's waist. Harry immediately stiffened at the contact, but could not pull away because Mr. Weasley chose to turn back and look at them at that exact moment.

"We'll be using the non-magic way to get there. I think that'll be best…leave a better impression…given the situation…" Mr. Weasley muttered, leading them to the nearby underground station.

They took the train—after much confusion on Mr. Weasley's part with the convoluted inner-workings of London's underground train network—and got off at a station among the swarm of thousands of commuting workers in the center of London.

Referring to the map, and with several mutterings of—"Oh yes, just right this way…It should be right around here…Just to the left, there…"—Mr. Weasley led them to an abandoned dilapidated red telephone box, with an ancient "Out Of Service" sign on the front, nearly walking into several busy looking with hefty brief cases who shot him irritated looks.

"After you," Mr. Weasley gestured, opening the door to the telephone box. Harry scowled as Tom pulled him inside, his arm still around his waist (he had nearly died of embarrassment on the tube), and watched as Mr. Weasley entered as well and immediately began working the dial on the phone.

Something clicked after five or six turns, and the entire booth jolted, before moving downwards into the ground.

A polished, female voice flooded the booth: "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic, the governing structure of the United Kingdom's wizarding population since 1192. Please state your name and business."

Mr. Weasley hastily picked up the receiver and answered, "Arthur Weasley, member of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, and Harry Potter and Tom Gaunt, both here attending a disciplinary hearing."

Three badges emerged from a brass chute, and Mr. Weasley pinned his own on to his vest, before handing Tom and Harry theirs, who in turn, pinned theirs on to their coats. They stepped outside, and entered the Ministry of Magic.

As he followed Mr. Weasley, Harry gaped at the sheer splendor of the Ministry, gazing at the glistening black marble and the high arched ceilings in awe. Hearing the sound of water among the cracks and pops of apparition, Harry turned and found himself looking at a huge, towering golden fountain depicting an arrogant looking wizard with his wand thrust triumphantly into the air, a stunning, heavily bedecked witch draped over his arm, surrounded by a bowing centaur, a kneeling goblin, and an adoring house elf. His gaze then caught onto a huge banner of the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, looking unyieldingly into the distance.

"Harry, don't fall behind," Mr. Weasley cautioned, leading them into a lift packed with numerous other tired-looking witches and wizards, still yawning.

The compartment moved downwards, before opening again, and several more wizards and witches entered the lift—one of whom, Harry realized with shock, was Kingsley Shacklebolt.

The dark-skinned wizard looked unaffected on the outside, but whispered something in Mr. Weasley' ear with a sort of frenzied urgency, before leaving as quickly as he had entered at the next opening of the lift.

Mr. Weasley let out a yelp, and looked at his watch with worry, pressing another button on the lift.

"What is it, Mr. Weasley?" Harry asked, his stomach tightening.

"Why is it even down _there_?" Mr. Weasley muttered, before looking up distractedly, "Oh, yes. Harry, I've just been informed that they've changed the time and venue of your hearing."

"What?" Harry replied, shocked.

"It's now in five minutes," Mr. Weasley answered, frowning anxiously, "and in courtroom ten at the Department of Mysteries."

Tom looked up sharply at that, amber eyes glinting in the dim lighting. "The Department of Mysteries?"

"Yes, yes," Mr. Weasley exclaimed, racing out of the lift and down the maze of halls. Harry and Tom had to run to keep up with him.

At last, Mr. Weasley stopped at a desk in front of the hall leading to two large brass doors. At the desk was a bored looking wizard dressed in grey robes, a sign saying SECURITY suspended in mid-air above his head.

"Well," Mr. Weasley exhaled, "This is where I leave you, boys. I wish you both the best of luck. Have faith in, as the muggles say, that 'the truth will always out'!"

Harry nodded, his stomach sinking as Mr. Weasley disappeared back into the maze of halls, leaving him alone with Tom and the security guard.

"Wands, please," the wizard said lazily, his gaze still on the day's issue of the Daily Prophet.

Hesitating, Harry handed him his wand, watching as the guard placed it onto a brass instrument and a quill recorded its properties.

"Eleven inches, holly, phoenix-feather core, and been used four years. Is that correct?"

Harry nodded, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his black trousers.

Without looking up from the parchment, the wizard opened his hand expectantly for Tom's wand.

Tom gazed at the wizard blankly, his hand flexing around the wand, before finally placing it on the brass instrument himself. The guard shot him an irritated look, as the quill scratched busily on the parchment.

"Thirteen and a half inches, yew, _also _phoenix-feather core, been in use sixty years. Is that right?" the wizard asked, his expression unchanging.

"That is correct," Tom intoned. The guard handed them back both their wands, and allowed them past him towards the brass doors.

"I suppose those doors are the entrance to the courtroom," Harry muttered, as they walked down the long hall.

"It would seem so," Tom returned lazily, looking down the deserted adjoining halls with disinterest.

As they neared the brass doors, however, they heard quiet voices conversing from a perpendicular corridor.

"…And I am _confident _minister, that you will do the right thing."

"Yes, but we must be—"

Harry gazed with incredulousness at Lucius Malfoy and Fudge (who was no doubt heading the hearing) conversing as though they were old friends, just minutes before the trial. This hearing was looking worse and worse.

Just as he was about to move past them, however, Tom decided to speak.

"Alas, it seems corruption has breached even the highest ranks of the Ministry," Tom drawled, his arm draped across Harry's shoulders.

Both wizards stopped speaking abruptly, turning to look at them, Fudge, with a scandalized expression, Lucius, with a sneer.

"E-excuse me?!" Fudge exclaimed, "I will have you know, that—"

"Please, Cornelius," Malfoy said graciously, "I will handle this. Why don't you head on to the courtroom?"

Clearly ruffled, Fudge gave a jerky nod and exited down the hall, disappearing into one of the twisting, winding corridors.

Malfoy turned to look at them, a malicious expression on his face. "_Potter_. And what is _your_ name, boy?"

"None of your concern," Tom smirked. Harry looked at the other suspiciously, wondering what the hell he was up to.

Malfoy looked down at Tom, curling his upper lip. "Do you know who I am?"

"I know that you are by no means affiliated with the Wizengamot, nor are you involved in the on goings of today's trial as a witness," Tom pronounced boredly, "And thus, you, in effect, have no business with Cornelius Fudge minutes before this trial. Now, if you'll excuse us, I believe said trial is starting."

Without a further glance, Tom's long fingered hand wrapped itself around his wrist, as he pulled him forward and pushed open a brass door, entering the courtroom.

The lighting in the courtroom was considerably brighter than the dark space of halls leading to it. Harry blinked, his eyes cringing slightly from the light. When he blinked past the black spots, he was met with the vision of rows and rows of important, official looking wizards and witches in dark crimson robes sitting and looking solely at him.

"Disciplinary hearing on the twelfth of August," Fudge announced, not deigning to ask Harry if he was ready to start the hearing, "concerning offenses committed by a Mr. Harry James Potter under the Decree of the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and the International Statute of Secrecy at Little Whinging, Surrey. Interrogators of today's trial: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of Magic; Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; and Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister. Witnesses for the Defense: Mr. Harry James Potter and Mr. Tom Gaunt. Court scribe: Percy Ignatius Weasley. Let the trial commence."

Fudge knocked the gavel, signifying the beginning of the hearing.

"I will now read the charges at hand today," Fudge continued, picking up a long strip of parchment and adjusting the glasses on his nose. "The court finds itself today contemplating these issues: that Mr. Harry James Potter did knowingly, deliberately, and in _full _awareness of the illegality of his actions, having received a prior warning from the Ministry of Magic concerning a similar charge, produce a Patronus Charm in the presence of a muggle, on August the second at twenty three minutes past nine, thus constituting an offense both under paragraph C of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, as well as under Section XIII of the International Confederation of Wizards' Statute of Secrecy."

Fudge looked up. "Will the accused take the stand."

Harry jerked in place, before stepping forward to mount the platform, watching through his peripheral vision as Tom took a seat to the side of the courtroom.

"Please state your name and age for the record," Fudge thundered, looking as though it hurt him physically to say the word 'please.' Percy scribbled furiously beside him, not even looking at Harry.

"My name is Harry James Potter. I am fifteen years old," Harry answered, shifting in his chair.

"Do you understand why you are in court today, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes."

"And why is that?"

"Because I used magic while underage to prot—"

"Mr. Potter, you received a warning concerning similar charges to the ones you face today three years ago, isn't that right?"

"Yes, I did."

"You understood what those charges meant, correct?"

"Yes, I did."

"And you also understood, Mr. Potter, the consequences if you were to commit similar actions again. Isn't that right?"

"…Yes."

"_And yet_," Fudge trumpeted, "Mr. Potter, three years after that incident, we find ourselves again contemplating similar charges, isn't that correct?"

"Yes," Harry gritted out through clenched teeth.

"Because on August 2nd, at nine twenty three, in Little Whinging, Surrey, you conjured a Patronus Charm, in front of a _muggle_. Isn't that right, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes, but a muggle that, I would like to point out, was already aware of magic—"

"Mr. Potter," Fudge said loudly, talking over him, "you _know _that you are prohibited from using magic outside of school, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did, but—"

"This rule was made clear to you?"

"Yes, but—"

"And you _used _magic that night, did you not, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes, _I did_, but—"

"Knowing that you were in a muggle-populated area?"

"Yes, but none of whom were _present _at the time—"

"Aware that there was a muggle present?"

"_Yes, _but who would I would like to _once again _point out, was aware of the existence of magic—"

"Mr. Potter, you _knowingly_—"

"I'm sorry," Harry snapped, losing his patience, but attempting to keep his voice calm, "but are you _allowed _to keep cutting me off before I've completed my answers?"

Silence reigned throughout the courtroom, as Fudge—and several other wizards and witches—looked at him at him in condemnation for having the _gall _to interrupt the interrogation.

A stern looking witch with severe features spoke up from beside the minister, looking at him sharply. "No, he is not, Mr. Potter. Minister, this your first and final warning. Please allow the witness to complete his answers before continuing on to your next question."

Fudge sniffed, "Very well, Madam Bones. Mr. Potter, please complete your answer."

"To _which question_?" Harry asked with ill-concealed exasperation.

"Mr. Potter," Fudge snapped, "on August 2nd, at nine twenty three, in Little Whinging, Surrey, you conjured a Patronus Charm, in front of a muggle. Isn't that correct?"

"Yes," Harry acknowledged, with a fierce expression on his face, "but only because there were dementors!"

Fudge paused, clearly not expecting that answer.

"Dementors?" Madam Bones, the stern looking witch, inquired, looking up through narrowed eyes. "Describe the incident."

"I was out in the park with my cousin—who is the muggle who saw me performing the charm and who is _fully _aware about my magic," Harry said slowly, "and when we turned into an alleyway returning home, there were two dementors. That's why I conjured the Patronus charm!"

"Dementors," Madam Bones repeated with surprise, her eyebrows lifted, "in Surrey."

"Ah, that's very clever, boy," Fudge sneered, recovering himself, "creating a story for why you used the Patronus charm. Muggles can't see dementors, can they? Highly convenient…highly convenient…"

"Minister, I believe there is a witness who may or may not be able to corroborate Mr. Potter's testimony." Madam Bones stated rather pointedly.

"Now, Amelia," Fudge said, placating, "we really haven't got the time to listen to more of this nonsense. I want this dealt with quickly—"

"With all due respect, Minister," Madam Bones returned sharply, "under the Wizengamot Charter of Rights, all accused individuals have the unalienable right to present witnesses defending their cases. Mr. Tom Gaunt, please take the stand. Mr. Potter, you may be seated."

Harry descended from the platform and walked forward to take Tom's seat. Harry sent Tom a significant look as the two crossed paths. There were many holes in Harry's story, which thankfully, had not yet been exploited or brought to attention.

Harry had failed to mention anything about Tom, though he had not been explicitly asked about him. But even if he had, Harry wouldn't have known what to say. Where did Tom come in? Why was he there? Muscles tensing, Harry knew that it was up to Tom to orchestrate the answers to those questions.

"Please state your name and age for the record," Fudge began loftily.

"My name is Tom Gaunt," Tom answered politely, flashing a smile, "I am fifteen years old."

Madame Bones spoke up. "We have no record of a Tom Gaunt, age fifteen in our system."

"I did not attend Hogwarts, though I will be attending this year, if that is the registry you are looking at," Tom answered, leaning back comfortably into the chair, "My family was impoverished. I doubt I was born in a hospital and registered with the ministry. My father passed away when I was young, and my mother passed away last year, which is why I was wandering, homeless, in Little Whinging."

"Describe the day of the incident," Fudge intoned.

"I was, as I stated, wandering in Little Whinging. I had spent the day looking and failing to procure a job, and was walking aimlessly as a result of my dejection. It was during my aimless walking, that I started to feel the chill."

"Please describe this chill that you felt," Madam Bones questioned, leaning forward.

Tom looked up at her, his gaze locking unyieldingly with hers. "I started to feel cold, and the cold began to seep under my skin, until I could feel it in my bones. And then…I began to feel as though all the happiness were being drained from me…As though I would never feel happy again."

Harry would have rolled his eyes at Tom's impeccable acting, if not for how nervous he was.

Madam Bones' eyes widened, and leaned forward even further, her voice quiet. "Did you recognize the cause of this chill?"

"Yes," Tom said firmly, "I did. I may not have had a formal education, nor did my parents, but even I was told stories about those who guarded Azkaban when I was a child."

"How did you proceed after identifying the presence of dementors?"

Harry watched as Tom artfully hesitated. "I…I am ashamed to admit it, but I considered turning back and fleeing at that point. All I had learned of magic had been through my mother's own limited knowledge and textbooks I had miraculously happened upon years ago, and I couldn't even legally use a wand. I was, frankly, ill equipped to deal with a dementor. But then I heard a shout, and I knew I had to do something. So I ran towards to source of the chill and came upon an alleyway."

"And what did you see when you entered the alleyway?" Madam Bones asked, riveted.

"I saw two boys, and two large creatures, hooded and cloaked in black with skeletal fingers. The boys were about to be Kissed, when the smaller boy of the two, who I now know to be Harry James Potter, raised his wand and cast the Patronus charm, sending them away."

"Dementors! Wandering into a muggle suburb!" Fudge sputtered, "I have never heard a more preposterous story!"

"Please!" Harry cried furiously, unable to keep himself quiet any longer, "I honestly doubt _any_ of us believe that the dementors being there was a coincidence."

Fudge's expression became icy, his voice deadly. "And…_what_…exactly are yousuggesting, Mr. Potter?"

Harry stiffened, refusing to look away despite his inner turmoil. Hadn't Sirius _warned _him not to lose his temper? To not let their words get to him? But Fudge had managed to pound every single button he had had within the last half hour, and Harry—as he seemed to be getting in the habit of doing—had just snapped.

But he had to fix this. He could _not_ let them take Hogwarts away from him.

Taking a deep breath, Harry rearranged his face into a cool, detached expression, unemotional and strictly polite. He readjusted his position on the chair, leaving behind his tense position at the edge of the seat for a more relaxed posture at the back of the chair.

"Nothing against the ministry, of course, Minister" Harry said calmly, his enunciation uncharacteristically impeccable, "We all know that the dementors are stationed at Azkaban, and that the Ministry of Magic would _never _sanction an attack upon an innocent individual of our community. Which begs the question, unfortunately, as to how two such dementors ended up so far away from Azkaban and in Surrey. Unlike Tom, I sincerely doubt they 'wandered' there."

He could feel Tom's gaze burning into him.

An obnoxious clearing of the throat then directed all attention to a small, toad-like woman sitting to the other side of Fudge.

"The court recognizes Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister," Fudge proclaimed.

The small, toad-woman stood up, and cleared her throat obnoxiously once more, before speaking. "Pardon me, Mr. Potter, and I _do _sincerely apologize if I have somehow misunderstood you, but it _sounded_—dear me—for just an _instant_, as though you were perhaps possibly _implying _that there is even a mere _chance_ that something _else_—other than the Ministry, that is—has power over the dementors and possibly ordered this attack."

"Madam Umbridge," Harry drawled, leaning forward to lock eyes with her, "I appreciate your consideration, but I did not imply. I blatantly suggested it."

"And who exactly would this third party be?" Fudge asked thunderously, standing up.

Normally, Harry, at this point, would have abandoned all unnecessary equivocations and gone straight for the elephant in the room, but he _knew_, now, that he needed more tact. Just a little more subtlety.

"Minister," Harry chuckled, standing up and walking forward until he was right in front of the minister. He leaned close to Fudge, but his words were directed at the entire room. "I think one person of rising prevalence comes to mind. You _know _who I am referring to. You _all _know."

The courtroom fell silent.

Quiet laughter reached his ears, and Harry turned sharply, to see Tom leaning back in his chair, his amber eyes riveted solely on Harry.

Fudge trembled with rage, his body visibly shaking as stated, "I would like to remind the court that the behavior and/or purported divided affiliations of the dementors is not of concern in today's trial. We are here to examine Mr. Harry James Potter's offenses under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery!"

"Nevertheless," Madam Bones returned neutrally, "you must agree that the possible _presence _of dementors is highly relevant in today's case, as clause XII of the Decree statute does state that the use of underage magic in the presence of a muggle is permissible under exceptional circumstances of life-threatening danger."

"Y-yes," Fudge said at last, deflating.

"Fellow members of the court," Madam Bones proclaimed, standing up to address the rest of Wizengamot, "having heard today's trial with an unbiased mind and an unbiased heart, review that which you have heard today and announce your verdict when I prompt you to do so."

She allowed the wizards and witches to converse for several minutes, before declaring, "Those in favor of conviction, raise your hand."

Many hands went up, about half a dozen, Harry estimated, among whom were the Minister himself, and the toad-looking woman who had cleared her throat so obnoxiously.

"And those in favor of clearing the accused of all charges, please raise your hand."

More than a dozen hands, by far the majority, raise their hands in response to this verdict, and Harry felt his hear soar.

Fudge had a pinched expression on his face. "Very well. The court finds Mr. Harry James Potter on the twelfth of August cleared of all charges."

The sound of the gavel marked the end of the hearing.


End file.
